The Poems of Henry Howard :: :: University of Virginia Library

Good ladies, you that have your pleasure in exyle,
Stepp in your foote, come, take a place, and mourne with me awhyle;
And suche as by their lords do sett but lytle pryce,
Lett them sitt still, it skills them not what chaunce come on the dyce.
But you whome love hath bound, by order of desyre
To love your lordes, whose good desertes none other wold requyre,
Come you yet once agayne, and sett your foote by myne,
Whose wofull plight, and sorowes great, no tongue may well defyne.
My lord and love, alas! in whome consystes my wealth,
Hath fortune sent to passe the seas, in haserd of his health.
That I was wontt for to embrace, contentid myndes,
Ys now amydd the foming floodds, at pleasure of the wyndes.
Theare God hym well preserve, and safelye me hym send;
Without whiche hope, my lyf, alas! weare shortlye at an ende.
Whose absence yet, although my hope doth tell me plaine

With short returne he comes anon, yet ceasith not my payne.
The fearefull dreames I have, oft tymes they greeve me so
That then I wake, and stand in dowbtt yf they be trew or no.
Somtyme the roring seas, me seemes, they grow so hye,
That my sweete lorde in daunger greate, alas! doth often lye.
Another tyme, the same doth tell me he is comme,
And playng, wheare I shall hym fynd, with T., his lytle sonne.
So forthe I goe apace, to see that lyfsome sight,
And with a kysse, me thinckes I say, “Now well come home, my knight;
Welcome, my sweete, alas! the staye of my welfare;
Thye presence bringeth forthe a truce betwixt me and my care.”
Then lyvelye doth he looke, and saluith me agayne,
And saith, “My deare, how is it now that you have all this payne?”
Wheare with the heavie cares, that heapt are in my brest,
Breake forth, and me dischardgeth cleane of all my great unrest.
Butt when I me awayke and fynde it but a dreame,
The angwyshe of my former woe beginneth more extreme,
And me tourmentith so that vnneth may I fynde
Some hydden wheare, to steale the gryfe of my unquyet mynd.
Thus, euerye waye, you see with absence how I burne,
And for my wound no cure there is but hope of some retourne,
Save when I feele, the sower, how sweete is felt the more,
It doth abate some of my paynes that I abode before;
And then unto my self I saye, “When that we two shall meete,
But lyttle tyme shall seeme this payne, that joye shall be so sweete.”
Ye wyndes, I you convart, in chieffest of your rage,
That you my lord me safelye send, my sorowes to asswage;
And that I may not long abyde in suche excesse,
Do your good will to cure a wight that lyveth in distresse.